


Breaking

by darkandstormyslash



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Choking, Humiliation kink, M/M, Masturbation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, dark fantasies, fantasised dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 22:29:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11000331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkandstormyslash/pseuds/darkandstormyslash
Summary: Following M's death, Q finds himself struggling to cope. So naturally he has late-night wanking sessions involving highly dubious fantasies of Raoul Silva. And then, finally, he calls James BondAngsty at the beginning, but with a relatively heartwarming ending. See the tags for warnings, but there's imagined dub-con and struggling to cope with M's death involved.





	Breaking

The first week after M’s death is bad. Everyone looks shell-shocked and Q wanders through the department in a bit of a daze, trying to keep up while attempting to patch the massive hole that Raoul Silva blew into their security. Agents scurry around like confused hamsters and Q hopes in an empty sort of way that the worst is over.

The first time Q sees James Bond afterwards, he knows that the worst is right here and is never going to leave.

James looks at him; but his expression isn’t reproachful, or angry, or anything Q feels it should be. It’s just … blank. The job is done, the bitch is dead. It’s a way of thinking that Bond has to be, has to have, has to adapt to.

Q has the smarts, he know, he has the knowledge and technical expertise for the work he’s doing. What he lacks is the experience, the emotional experience, to deal with things like this. Little things that are a daily hazard of MI6 like the building exploding, the security being ripped apart, the boss dropping dead.

James has that experience, and it’s frightening to see.

Q goes home later and later, he sleeps less and less. When he does, it's not proper sleep, more passing out through overwork and exhaustion while still tanked on red bull and a constant stream of tea. He drags his way through James Bond’s available files, and then through all his secret encrypted files, trying to see what kind of life it takes to form a man who can see someone like M collapse at his feet and come into work the next week to take orders from Mallory, business as usual.

And then he finds himself looking through Raoul Silva’s file, to see what it takes to make a man who _can’t_.

He works his way methodically through the life and times of Tiago Rodriguez, in the hours between 9pm and 7am when he allows himself to be outside of the office. There are papers, reports, photos, clips, and as soon as he hears Silva’s voice he finds himself shuddering, because suddenly the words in his nightmares have a clear and obvious sound.

_“Not such a clever boy.”_

Silva broke into him, broke into his precious system, gutted the whole thing inside out. They’re still repairing the damage even now, the trail left behind, the walls that have come down and left them open and vulnerable.

Q lies on his bed, head tipped back, hand pressing down between his legs, eyes shut.

_“Did you think you could take me on, boy? Were you playing at being an agent? Did you think you were one of the big boys?”_

It’s not the first time he’s masturbated over an agent’s file. He’s a lonely man with no time for a boyfriend, to say nothing of the number of exhausting lies that would be required trying to maintain a relationship with a normal member of the public. Usually, shamefully, its Bond’s file, which contains not only numerous details of sexual encounters, but also a rather nice series of pictures of James’s cock and balls, following the medical procedures required to repair them from rope-damage.

_“Did you think you could win, silly boy? Did you think this would happen any other way?”_

When he imagines Bond, he imagines being bent over, usually in a fairly rough and ready way. Any available surface, any available time. The Silva in his mind fucks him face up, looking into his eyes, laying him spread out on his back. Silva wants him to see, wants Q to understand exactly how small, and helpless, and useless he is.

_“I can break into you. I can break you.”_

Silva’s hand closes around his neck. Q gasps and twitches and jerks and makes a shameful mess all over the sheets.

He knows he should see someone. Regularly masturbating over thoughts of being violated by a recently deceased wanted criminal is not normal, or at the very least it’s not healthy in his current state. But he can hardly discuss it with a regular counselor and he knows for a fact that anything he says to an MI6 psychiatrist will end up on his file where Mallory will see it. He might have trusted the old M to know intimate details like this, but he doesn’t trust Mallory.

Not least because a fair number of his night-time imaginations also involve James Bond.

He imagines Bond is there, watching. Watching with the same expression he wore when Q last saw him; blank dispassionate practicality.

_“You let him in,”_ James says, because his words can convey what his eyes never will. _“You let him in, you let him enter, if it wasn’t for you…_ ”

But even in his mind, he can’t let James finish that sentence.

He lays afterwards, staring at the ceiling, letting the sanity filter back into his mind. He closes down Silva’s file, and sees Bond’s behind it, his favourite shot of Bond’s cock-and-balls filling the screen. On an impulse he grabs his phone and dials James’s number, laying back down.

He needs to hear James’s voice, he needs it to overlay Silva’s in his head.

“Yes?” James answers, and Q is suddenly struck dumb, unable to think of an excuse that sounds sane. “Who is it?”

Q tries to think of a possible reason to give for calling at this unearthly time in the morning, but his mind is empty and dry.

“Who is this?” James pauses and adds in a growl, “You should know, this number will be traced, and we have a man who can hunt you down.”

_Yes_ , Q thinks, _the man is me_. “Bond?”

“Q?” The distrust in James’s voice suddenly turns to bafflement, and then alarm, “What is it, where are you, has something happened?”

It’s 3am. Of course, Bond thinks there’s an emergency, but he doesn't sound like a man who's just been woken up. Q wonders how long Bond has been awake, and just how well Bond is sleeping at the moment.

“Are you able to speak? Is someone else there?” Bond says, and his voice is now all business, his mind no doubt working lightning fast through the possibilities. Q finds his voice again.

“Yes, sorry, I just-“ Q pauses because he still can’t think of an excuse. _I was just having dark and disturbing masturbatory fantasies about you and I’m terrified I’m breaking in the wrong way_.

“Is everything alright?” He can hear Bond typing in the background. Maybe he’s still working. Maybe he’s looking up porn. Maybe Bond is also fantasising about being fucked by Raoul Silva in order to deal with the heavy weight of still being alive. Most probably not.

“I know you’re right handed.” Q finally gabbles, “But how far can you use the left hand, I mean can you shoot reasonably straight? I’m working on a –a new design…”

“Is everything alright?” Bond asks in a softer tone, gently exasperated, and Q knows that his feeble attempts at an excuse have not worked. He flushes in the darkness, gripping the phone harder. Even without being able to see him, Bond can see right through him.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Bond says, and he doesn't have to explain what he means.

“I know.” Q snaps back automatically, and then yields in return, “It wasn’t yours either.”

There’s another silence, but this one Q wants to listen to forever. He wants to keep Bond on the end of the phone-line; close enough and far away enough all at the same time. He wants to keep this moment, this post-wank 3am pity-call. He wants to keep it because it’s unconnected from the real-world, and therefore exactly where he wants to be right now.

“Are you looking through his file?” Bond asks lightly, and suddenly Q knows exactly what Bond is using the computer for. Bond is also looking up Tiago Rodriguez, similarly trying to piece together the broken puzzle to check that the break-points don’t too closely resemble his own. Q feels a little less alone, a little less mad.

“No.” He answers automatically and then, struck by a sudden mischievous urge, “I’m looking at your cock.”

He can tell from the strangled little noise on the other end that he’s managed to say something unexpected, and he presses forwards with the advantage. “Your medical file. There’s a nice picture.”

“Enjoying it, are you?”

“Oh yes.” He closes Bond’s file and brings Tiago’s back, looking into Raoul’s face. He clicks forward until he reaches Silva without the prosthetics, gaunt, haggard, and broken.

Broken the opposite way to how Bond is broken.

Q has to make sure he breaks like Bond.

Bond gives a laugh on the phone. “Get to sleep Q. It’s 3am.”

“You’re awake.” But the reckless streak is starting to fade, and Q feels suddenly tired. It doesn’t feel as if a weight has lifted, rather it feels as though one that was hanging above his shoulders has suddenly landed, bearing down on him. But now it’s here, he can deal with it. He needs to sleep.

“I’m not the one who has to play with electronic explosives tomorrow.” Bond still sounds amused and Q is glad. There will still be humour, once he’s broken, it’s good to know that. There will still be jokes, and laughing, and 3am phone-calls for no reason.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.” He says as formally as he can, because there’s no other way to end the call with dignity. Bond gives another laugh and then hangs up. Q stares at the phone, and then looks at his computer. Silva’s twisted face looks back at him, and Q regards it, frankly and sensibly. It’s a man, not a spirit or a bogey, just a man driven mad.

“You lost, old man.” Q murmurs at the screen, and then reaches across to pull the plug out at the wall. The laptop whirs as it transfers to battery, and Silva’s face fades slightly as the power-saving setting kicks in.

Q lies back down and closes his eyes. When he finally wakes from his sleep, the battery has run down completely and the screen is black.


End file.
